


red blue yellow and and and and and

by xXstaystillXx



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Experimental Style, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:41:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xXstaystillXx/pseuds/xXstaystillXx
Summary: another wedding vow, another gun that shoots love instead of bullets.
Relationships: Gerard Way/Mikey Way
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	red blue yellow and and and and and

**Author's Note:**

> in the paramour.

you’re not the one who can make something from nothing.

it’s like how you used to perch next to each other on the sink, looking in the mirror and tracing your nose, your lips, leaving smiley-face smudges on the glass, deciding who got mom’s jaw and who got dad’s nose, divvying it up, making it equal, _you got the good genes_ and _we have the same eyes, don’t we, look, see, could hold water in those sockets,_ and the simple truth of your bones and skin and whatever crawls around underneath. you inherited crazy from someone but he was, he was the storyteller, right, the one who could sit cross-legged on your bed with five pillows under the small of his back and tell you things that’d never happened but he made sound real, real enough to touch, real enough to have pink little scars from, and sure, sure, that was always something that belonged to you two, the stories, trading fantasies like baseball cards or top-of-the-bag halloween candy and you could only do highschool fantasies studded with _uh_ and _like_ and sure, sure, he stuttered just as much, but you could reach your hand out into the cloud of his words and take a fistful if you wanted, you could always sink into whatever he’d been spinning— werewolves and vampires and aliens, and alien vampire werewolves, and sometimes when it was very late pansy shit about kissing whoever you want which, which really was in the same sci-fi unreality— and come back to them later as if they were dreams you’d had instead of your brother sitting cross legged on your bed with pillows under his back telling you about blood, and teeth, and guts, and maybe sometimes a gun that shot love instead of bullets and oh, how you’d laughed at him for that but the empty space between your brain and your skull was full of it for a weeks, a gun that shot love instead of bullets, say it again, a gun that shot love instead of bullets. 

and then you kissed him at someone else’s birthday party. you remember you remember the people had cleared out gone to another part of the big echoey house with its thin walls and you two were in the basement with the two-liters and the bowls of chips because when were you not that, just that, you two in a basement with everyone else’s leftovers spilled out onto the floor, and gerard had been playing _this house is not for sale_ on his rickety ipod and singing quietly quietly, high-pitched and off-key like he did when he didn’t want to hear himself and you’d been drumming along on his thigh, his soft thigh and making note to call him the pillsbury doughboy later for those soft girl-thighs of his but you’d been drumming, and he’d always said you had rhythm and you guess you kind of did because it didn’t sound wrong, it sounded almost almost like you could be performing, or something, you just sounded right, good, his thin singing-for-himself voice and you patting out the backbeat that you could pick off the top like songs were trays of strings floating in water, you’d reached in and plucked up the right soaked-through strand and it felt better than almost anything so, at the bridge you think, or maybe the end of the song, wherever it was that bon jovi sang _standing on the dirt where they'll dig my grave_ , gerard caught it by the tail just right and it gored you in the chest like an arrow, or a gun that shot bullets instead of love.

so you kissed him and he reacted like he’d been waiting for years, like water, like deserts, and he left a thin thin thin film of oil on your lips from how clumsy you’d been, just smearing against each other’s faces and it was gross, very gross, very very gross, but you kept licking your lips anyway because it made you think of fries and it made you think of gas-station food, cheap shit, junk, and you thought maybe maybe junk food was going to be more precious than the most expensive gourmet dish in the world. 

because of that, because of you and your grease-filmed lips and him and his back against the five pillows you kept tripping and falling together, like whoops-did-we-mean-that like accidentally sharing a bed and jerking each other off and crying into his soft shoulder when you couldn’t stop breathing like a lunatic, like a trapped animal, like your leg was twisted and bleeding and broken in metal teeth and all you could do was wheeze and hitch with your rabbit lungs, all you were was beady eyes and the layers and layers of blankets with fear stacked between each one and he’d hold you, and he’d take your shrill rabbit gasps into his own mouth and he’d swallow them, and you were just kissing you were just scared so scared kids but it felt like the end of the world, like rapture, like religion, it felt like you were nothing but a naked ball of bones whining _i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry_ into his chest so it would dig into his heart, too, because you were always the one who wouldn't couldn’t handle it and he was the blackhaired paleeyed saint who dug his thumb into your forehead and blessed that empty space between your brain and your skull and held you, he always held you, and he always told you stories. 

there was this time, there was this time that you had been sitting wrapped up together soul-to-soul the way siamese twins are hip-to-hip and it wasn’t serious, it wasn’t special, but you were together close as you could get watching maybe _star trek_ or _stargate_ or something with stars and your mom saw, and her mouth twisted, and she didn’t say anything, just walked off shaking her cloudy blonde hair but you shot to opposite ends of the couch like it was an evacuation, like a house on fire, like a falling airplane, and oh, if you could say how cold your stomach went, if you could say how off-key it felt to stop touching him like it was something wrong, like you’d let go of the string.

and he came into your room that night the hall light too too bright behind him like a stage light like a thief light and he put his knees on your bed and they bumped yours, and he put his forehead to yours and they bumped, too, like leaves floating on a pond, like water, like deserts, and his hands found yours and you felt like you could see the backs of his eyes and they should have been shell-marbled and shiny an animal’s eye spotlights in the dark because he was always that much more, even now, if you were the rabbit squealing in the trap he was the shine from the back of a cat’s eyes, and he said _she didn’t see she doesn’t know tell me she doesn’t know_ and you couldn’t say anything so you held his hand closer and draped the sheet around you both like a shroud like ghosts like deserts and water and water in the desert and he said _what would we do mikey_.

and you didn’t know.

and you still don’t know.

and

and there are lights behind your back and he’s on your right and you’re on his left and you feel so staged, you feel so tired, the afterimage of yellow lines on pavement scraped into your pupils, looking into the dark in front of you with the bright bright bright lights at your back at the bones in your spine the ones he counted that night with his knees on your bed, and you’re taking his hand, and you’re looking into the dark together, spotlights are behind you and there’s a concrete stage under your feet and you’re so, so tired from driving the night away and you take your belt because gerard’s is too flimsy, a thin plasticy girl’s belt that could snap like a twig when you need thick leather, and you hold his hand and cinch your real leather belt around his wrist and the car’s ding-ding-ding-ing a warning behind you, door open headlights on on on and so, there, okay, it’s no stage, those are headlights, not spotlights. 

and you have oil on your lips from the gas station food you’d bought in armfuls— bugles and two red slushies and as many boxes of peanut m&ms as you could jam into your jacket pockets, the clerk had asked what you two kids were doing out so late and you’d taken another bag of chips from the rack and put it in the pile and given her your mother’s credit card— and eaten on the road, holding the open gaping mouth of the bag or box or 16-ounce-cup to gerard as many times as you could because you know he doesn’t like to eat in front of you, and every time he gave in and took some deep-fried sugary tidbit and cracked it between his teeth it was just junk food, it was just precious, remember, but you’d imagined it was the bones of your fingers instead of m&ms— the red ones, he likes the red ones, he was always very red— and you wanted to take a penknife and pry apart your hands at the joints, feed them to him one by one in sections like a chocolate bar, hear them crack between his teeth, and you knew if you hadn’t needed one hand to drive keep driving and the other to touch him, you’d have done it in a heartbeat, given him all the red he wanted, then you had to pull over to the shoulder and vomit your stomach empty into the tall ditchgrass and he’d been at your back with his fingers silently counting the bones in your spine and asking if you were okay and you’d said _just thinking about last meals_ and he drove after that. 

but after that, after driving, after eating. now.

now you’re on the not-stage, looking at a sign that says _caution no guardrails_ and your hand, the right one— the one you’d wanted to feed to gerard first— is losing circulation from your belt cinched far far far too tight around your wrist, grinding your bones together, numbing your fingers where they’re woven with his and he says _i love you_ and you say _i love you_ and you get the stupid, stupid urge to tell him _i can’t believe we’re doing this_ like this is getting a tattoo or going on a surprise trip to vegas, like that, like a wine-country movie, light and easy as if stomach acid isn’t still sitting in the back of your throat like a toad, as if you hadn’t been sobbing your eyes out all the way here, as if you hadn’t bitten your lip to shreds while you were pocketing the car keys because your dying-rabbit hyperventilating would wake up your parents. as if you hadn’t held gerard and just screamed into his shoulder for minutes upon minutes after you parked the car, as if he hadn’t crumpled to the ground in the parking lot of the gas station his knees in a puddle of oil and put his head in his hands like a child having a tantrum and cried, and cried, and cried, and all you’d done was think _his hair’s getting long_ as it wrapped around his wrists like seaweed.

as if.

and you keep seeing faces in the dark when you glance away and you know how far the fall will be because the rush of water is too faint, too distant, grinding over rocks ten light years below, wearing them away and you wonder if your face will be worn away like that, if it will it erode into someone new or just your empty empty blessed gerard-filled skull staring blind into the air and you think about your bodies, the end, gerard’s seaweed hair floating haloing his bloated blank face, you think about how you’re going to look after ten days of river water and maybe in ten years you’ll be an urban legend and they’ll have forgotten you were brothers, they’ll have put a girl’s face and tragic white gown on gerard and dressed you in a collared shirt and a bow tie and you’ll just be another ghost story made of romance, another suicide pact wedding vow, another gun that shoots love instead of bullets. you’ll be as anonymous as you can be, tied together at the wrist, floating, dead, bones broken on rock, skulls smooth and shaped flat like skipping stones, and you can hear him start to cry again next to you and you can’t think of anything more romantic than this.

 _i love you,_ he says again.

 _i love you_ , you say, and you don’t need _too_ or _more_ , all you need is an echo of him, and here is the part where you jump, when you pull each other down and your bodies hit the water with a noise like a shattering windowpane, but it isn’t. haha. 

it isn’t, you never stole your parents’ car and drove to the delaware river in the middle of the night and killed each other and you think, honestly you think you’ll regret that for the rest of your life, oh, years upon years ago he was gerard and you were mikey and every story he told set up camp in your insides, the wet delicate disgusting parts that keep you alive, and every time you can’t sleep or you wake up from hell you think about headlights and bridges and you were just scared kids trading stories because mom saw you siamese-twinning it on the couch watching something with stars in it and and and.

and you’d needed a way out. you needed an end to the story and, hallelujah, you found it in the snot dripped to your upper lip, in him saying _we could we could we could use a gun_ and even though you’d felt like your heart was breaking in the simplest sense, or maybe the duct tape and spit you’d been using to hold it together was peeling off, you’d put two fingers to his temple and said _pow_ and he hadn’t thought it was funny and neither had you but he’d jerked back anyway, like he was supposed to do, recoil, and you’d grinned without smiling and your eyes were tear gummed and his lashes looked like star points and you’d said _where the fuck would we get it_ and he said _two we’d need two synch it i’m not not not not not watching your brains blow out_ and you’d wanted to go home, then, sick with it even though you were in your own bed but you kept grinning, and he kept having stars for eyes and raven wings for hair and every other soppy pulp-fiction description you’d ever heard, because he’s the one that makes something for nothing and you’re the one that shot him in the back, you’re the one who smeared your mouths together to _this house is not for sale_ and made deep-fried junk into caviar, day into night, water into desert water in the desert love into bullets a bullet stuffed with love. pow.

and you kept trading ways to kills yourselves like baseball cards or top-of-the-bag halloween candy and he couldn’t stand the idea of slitting your wrists— even though you loved that like you’d love a hole in the head, you’d been thinking about a warm warm bath with him naked, allowed to be naked because of the lock on the door and an empty bottle of painkillers, or booze, or both and taking his wrist, his skin, his blue veins his pale arm, his wrist, his wrist, and running a razor up it and letting him take his turn on you, red, red, he always looked so good in red, it brought out the green in his pale saint’s eyes and the pink in his mouth that swallowed whatever you gave to him, but he didn’t want to hurt you said _what if one of us goes faster or they find us and save me and not you no no no_ so you’d bit it back— and you couldn’t find a gun to save your life, pills wouldn’t be a guarantee, you couldn’t agree and the tears kept coming until he said _the delaware_. and you were both scared scared scared kids but that was it, you kissed him in exchange for the name of a river, said _we could make it a road trip, yeah, steal the car, midnight, bonnie and clyde,_ and he’d laughed— real laugh not deathmask laugh oh he was so pale— and put his head on your chest and said _bonnie and clyde_ and you loved him, and you passed the names of martyrs back and forth like a cigarette, or malt with two straws, and you said _tell me about it gerard please_ with your fingers shaking from how sure you were you’d have to do it, waiting for the day your mother and father found you tangled together and tried to lock you up at either ends of the earth, and you just needed him to make you something from nothing so he did. he made water from a desert, he bled the stone dry for you, he told you about the headlights and the bridge like a stage and the gas station food sitting heavy on your lips and your wrists bound together, and how you’d be an urban legend, how there’d be love behind it forever and oh, it was all you wanted, and it was nothing you’d ever want to do, and you felt like a stumbling cliche but you made him kiss you before the last word was out of his mouth and you told him _if they find us we can just go we can go to the delaware we can stay as we are._

he said _i love you_. then no one ever found you.

so it isn't. it isn't. it's just a grasping handful of his story like cotton candy melting into your sweaty palm and

and sometimes you sit and you just stare at him and you see his hands, the bones in them, his neck and his clean wrists and his soot-dirty eyes and he’s never looked more like a savior, he’s never looked less like your brother and you wish you’d done it, you wish you could take him away, out of the tour buses or concert halls or expensive hotel rooms with balcony views or this fucking house and have him on a gritty concrete bridge over the delaware, you’d tie your wrists together and jump and leave the car running with all its lights on for the police to find in the morning. you’d fall facedown so they couldn't identify the bodies, so, so it won’t be too late to bury you in the same grave plot, that’s all, share the dirt and worms and melt into the earth side by side temple to temple ankle to ankle, like you’re fated to, like religion, like prophets like soulmates but it doesn’t work that way because it’s too late in the day, too late in the decade. you could curse dental records and dna and the science and the people who don’t know anything about you two, the ones that would take away your lover’s leap anonymity, see you chopped in half and sent to other ends of the world in holes waiting for your wives because it _is_ too late— if you snapped and told the nearest tv camera _i’ve been fucking my brother since 9th grade is that it is that what you want to hear_ it’d be nothing but a pr scandal, it’d be nothing but the loss of fame, a divorce or two, an execution in the mind’s eye when it should have been a rotting new jersey urban legend of two scared sacred kids killing each other with a gun that shot bullets instead of love.

it should have been. it

it

it

pow


End file.
